Hostile Affection

Chapter 13: Until He Said Stop

Nicco’s POV

The days passed quietly, as if the city itself was holding its breath.

Troye and I had slipped into something that didn’t quite have a name yet—something unspoken, delicate, but alive. He’d insisted I move back to my place after his recovery, and I respected that. But the strange thing was, even with the space between us, we didn’t feel apart. If anything, it was the opposite. The distance only sharpened the pull.

We orbited each other like we’d found some secret rhythm. A look held too long. A silence that felt less like absence and more like peace.

When I told him I’d court him, I meant it. And I did—with a kind of devotion I hadn’t known I was capable of. No grand gestures, no noise, no promises I couldn’t keep—just presence. Consistency.

Every night, after his shift at the café, I’d show up. Sometimes I’d bring flowers—fresh, fragrant, chosen carefully each time. Other nights, I’d carry boxes of pastries or snacks for the staff. Watching them light up made Troye’s eyes soften, and that alone was enough reason to keep doing it. For a whole month, I never missed a single evening.

Tonight was no different.

It was nearly 11 p.m.—closing time. The streets were thinning out, the city’s hum quieting to a softer tune. I stood outside the café, bouquet of red roses in hand. Their scent clung to the night air, sharp and steady, like the beat of my own heart.

I took a breath and pushed the glass door open.

“Sorry, we’re closed—oh, Nicco. It’s you,” Kiana said, eyebrows arching with that familiar teasing glint.

Behind the counter, Kent leaned against the espresso machine, smirking. “By the looks of it, someone’s about to steal hearts again.”

Kiana pretended to frown. “No snacks tonight? That’s unusual.”

I laughed, lifting the bouquet slightly. “Trying not to go bankrupt.”

Kent whistled. “Slipping already! Benny, call Sir Troye. His number one suitor’s here.”

Their laughter filled the café, warm and easy.

A few moments later, Troye stepped out from the kitchen, towel slung over his shoulder, a faint crease between his brows that vanished the moment he saw me.

“You’re here,” he said softly.

“Yeah.” I held out the roses, trying not to look too eager. “For you.”

From behind him, Kent called out, “We’re heading out. You’ve got closing duties, Troye!”

“Be careful, Nicco,” Kiana added with a grin. “He bites.”

The door chimed as they left, and suddenly it was just us—the hum of the fridge, the faint scent of coffee, and the quiet that always settled differently when we were alone.

Troye crossed the room, stopping by the counter. His gaze dropped to the flowers, and I saw the ghost of a smile tug at his lips. “You really stuck to it, huh? It’s been a month.”

“Yeah,” I said, watching him closely. “And you still haven’t said yes.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just that soft, half-hidden smile—the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but still managed to undo me.

We talked for a while after that. We always did. I was the one who talked most; he listened the way no one else ever had—as if my words carried weight, as if silence itself bent toward them.

Troye had this way of asking questions that mattered. Not the surface kind. The ones that made you pause, dig, and find parts of yourself you didn’t even know you’d buried.

But there were things he wouldn’t talk about, too. Family, mostly. I’d tried to ask once, and he’d gone quiet in that way that made me feel like I’d stepped into a room I wasn’t supposed to enter. Since then, I’d learned when to stop pushing. Some doors needed to stay closed—at least for now.

Before I knew it, midnight was creeping in. The café was spotless, the lights dimmed to a soft glow. I followed him out, and as always, he let me drive him home. It had become part of our unspoken routine, the kind of habit that didn’t need explaining.

The city felt gentle tonight. Empty streets, amber streetlights, and that faint, familiar hum that made everything feel suspended.

We were almost at his building when he said, “Pull over.”

I glanced at him, confused. “What?”

He was staring out the window, voice quieter this time. “Just… pull over. Please.”

I eased the car to the curb. The engine hummed softly, filling the silence that suddenly felt heavier than usual.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did something happen?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared outside, his reflection faint in the glass. When he finally spoke, his tone was steady, but something in it made my pulse jump.

“Let’s stop this.”

My hands tightened around the wheel. “What?”

“This,” he said again, clearer this time. “The courtship. Stop it.”

For a second, all I could hear was my heartbeat. “Why? Did I do something wrong? Just tell me.”

He turned his head slightly, still not meeting my eyes. “Why keep courting me,” he murmured, “when you’re already my boyfriend?”

I blinked. My brain short-circuited.

“Wait—what?” I breathed out a shaky laugh. “You’re serious?”

Finally, he looked at me. And for once, the smile reached his eyes—warm, real, and achingly soft.

“Yes,” he said. “We are.”

It hit me all at once—relief, disbelief, joy so sharp it almost hurt.

I laughed, breathless. “You—God, Troye, you could’ve just said that earlier.”

He tilted his head. “Wouldn’t have been as fun.”

Something in me gave way then. Before I could think about it, I leaned across the seat and kissed him.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t practiced. Just soft, full of everything I’d been trying to say for weeks. He didn’t pull away. He kissed me back, slow and sure, until the world outside stopped existing.

When I pulled away, I was smiling so hard it hurt.

For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel the need to speak. The silence between us said enough.

I rested my forehead against his, eyes half-closed.

“Guess that means I don’t need to bring flowers tomorrow,” I whispered.

Troye chuckled—the kind of quiet, genuine laugh that made everything worth it. “You can still bring them. I like the effort.”

I grinned, unable to help it. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

He smirked, eyes glinting under the streetlight. “You have no idea.”

And there, parked beneath the dim glow of the city that had learned to sleep, I realized something simple and terrifying:

I was already in too deep.

And for once—I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

***

Troye’s POV

That night, sleep wouldn’t come.

The ceiling above me felt endless, pale, and too quiet—like it was waiting for something I couldn’t name. I stared at it anyway, hoping it might give me an answer. The sheets were soft, the air still, the lights dimmed just enough for peace. And yet, peace was the one thing I couldn’t find.

My thoughts refused to settle.

I turned onto my side, eyes drifting to the small lump of fur curled at the foot of the bed. “Scarlet,” I whispered, my voice sounding smaller than I intended, “did I make the right choice… saying yes to Nicco?”

The question hung in the air, fragile and uncertain.

Scarlet blinked lazily, then gave a soft meow before flicking her tail.

“I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no,” I murmured, half-smiling. “You’re no help.”

As if on cue, my phone buzzed against the bedside table, screen lighting up in the dark. I reached for it, squinting at the caller ID.

Nicco.

A sigh escaped me before I could stop it, but I answered anyway. “Hello?”

“Ay,” came his familiar, teasing voice. “No ‘babe’? Just ‘hello’?”

I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn’t see me. “What do you want?”

“Open your door.”

My brows furrowed. “What?”

“Just open your door,” he repeated, tone too casual to be trusted.

I groaned but swung my legs off the bed. The floor was cold under my feet as I padded toward the door, half-annoyed, half-curious. I didn’t even check the monitor—too tired, too used to him.

When I opened the door, I froze.

There he was—Nicco—in gray pajama pants and a fitted white tank top, hair tousled, grin unapologetically smug. In one hand, a pillow. Over his shoulder, a rolled-up blanket.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, utterly baffled.

He stepped past me without hesitation, like he’d always belonged in my space. “I live next door now,” he said, voice bright with pride. “Bought the unit beside yours last week.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“I was gonna tell you,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “but I didn’t want to scare you off too early. Now that you’re mine, I figured—why wait?”

I crossed my arms. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

He grinned. “I just want to sleep beside my boyfriend tonight.”

The way he said it—so effortlessly sure—sent a small, traitorous flutter through my stomach.

I looked away. “I don’t want to.”

“Come on,” he coaxed, eyes softening.

“I said no.”

“We’re just going to sleep,” he said, holding up a hand as if making a solemn oath. “No funny business. Promise.”

He was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

And maybe I was worse, because somehow, I let him win.

Before I knew it, Nicco was on my bed, stretching like a cat, smile triumphant. I lingered by the edge for a moment, debating all my life choices, before finally giving in and climbing onto the opposite side.

To establish boundaries, I grabbed the hotdog-shaped body pillow and wedged it firmly between us.

Nicco frowned. “What’s this for?”

“Insurance,” I said flatly. “In case something wicked crosses your mind.”

He scoffed. “You’re the one who put it there. Maybe you’re expecting something wicked.”

I glared at him. “Go to sleep.”

Instead, he reached over, grabbed the pillow, and—with a grin—tossed it aside. Then his arm found its way around me, pulling me close before I could protest.

My breath caught.

Our bodies brushed, the warmth of him seeping through my shirt. I could smell faint mint on his breath and the clean scent of his cologne—the same one that lingered on his jackets when he left them at the café. His heartbeat was steady, a quiet rhythm against my chest.

“You belong right here,” he whispered, adjusting until my head rested on his arm.

I tried to wriggle free, but his hold only tightened, gentle but sure.

“Face me,” he murmured.

I hesitated. Then slowly, I turned.

We were close—too close. Our noses nearly touched.

“B-Babe?” I stammered, immediately regretting the word. “Isn’t there… a better endearment? Something less cliché?”

He chuckled softly. “What do you want me to call you then? Love? Honey? Sweetheart?”

“Just our names are fine.”

“Wow,” he said, eyes dancing. “So formal. You really aren’t the affectionate type, huh?”

“Fine,” I muttered. “Babe then. Or baby. Whatever.”

He grinned like he’d just won the lottery. “That’s more like it.” A pause, then—“Now… give me a kiss.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he was already leaning in.

The kiss was light—barely there at first. Then steady. Real. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything, didn’t try to prove a point. It just was. It carried warmth and care, patience and promise.

When he pulled back, he didn’t say a word. He just smiled, his thumb brushing a stray strand of hair from my forehead.

We stayed like that for a long while—talking quietly, sharing stories we hadn’t meant to tell, laughing about nothing. The world outside disappeared, shrinking until it was just us and the soft pulse of our breathing.

By the time sleep crept in, it was past two in the morning.

Nicco’s arm was still around me, steady and warm. I could feel his breath against my hair, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.

It should’ve felt strange. Too fast. Too much.

But it didn’t.

For once, I didn’t feel the need to run or overthink. I just let the moment hold me.

And as my eyes finally closed, a quiet thought settled somewhere deep in my chest—gentle, steady, and true.

Maybe saying yes hadn’t been a mistake after all.

***

Nicco’s POV

I woke to an empty space beside me.

The warmth that had lingered from Troye’s body was gone, replaced by the cool imprint of sheets that still carried his shape. For a moment, I just lay there—half-awake, half-dreaming—my hand reaching instinctively toward where he’d been. Only the quiet met me back.

A soft sigh escaped my lips as I blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains. My arm fumbled across the nightstand until my fingers found my phone.

One message. Short, careful, unmistakably him.

Babe, I didn’t wake you. Made breakfast. Eat before you leave. Door passcode: 170998.

I couldn’t help the smile that curved my mouth.

That was so Troye—never loud about affection, never grand. Just deliberate. Quiet in words, loud in care.

I leaned back against the headboard, rereading the message once more before typing a quick reply:

You’re impossible. But thank you.

A yawn slipped out as I tossed the phone aside and stretched. The sheets were still faintly scented with his cologne—something soft, woodsy, faintly sweet. It made me want to stay there a little longer, just breathing him in.

But the neatness of the room reminded me whose space I was in. Troye’s world ran on order, on careful gestures and folded edges. So, I made the bed the way I’d seen him do it—tucking corners, smoothing the pillows, almost reverently. Maybe it was silly, but part of me wanted to leave it looking untouched, like the tenderness of the night could stay preserved there.

When I finally padded out to the dining area, the condo was bathed in soft morning light. The curtains diffused the sun into a warm haze that made everything look gentler—like a dream refusing to end.

On the table sat breakfast, neatly arranged beneath a glass dome: garlic rice, scrambled eggs, and fried fish. Simple, homemade, perfectly Troye. Steam still curled faintly around the edges, proof he’d only just finished before slipping out.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. “You hopeless romantic,” I murmured, even though he wasn’t there to hear it.

It wasn’t about the food. It was the thought behind it—the quiet message in every detail. I remembered you. I cared enough to make this.

I sat down, ate slowly, and found myself smiling like an i***t through every bite.

When I was done, I washed the dishes, dried them, and set them back in their place. I even wiped down the counter twice, just to be sure. Troye’s sense of order had clearly rubbed off on me, and I didn’t mind.

Before leaving, I crouched down beside the couch where Scarlet was lounging, tail flicking lazily.

“Take care of him while I’m gone, yeah?” I said softly.

The cat blinked up at me, completely unimpressed, then turned her head away to resume her nap. Typical.

I chuckled, giving the faintest pat to the cushion before straightening up. My eyes swept the room one last time—everything exactly where it should be, everything still faintly humming with his presence.

I hadn’t realized how easily this place had started to feel like home.

Locking the door behind me, I lingered for a second in the hallway, the echo of the passcode still in my head. 170998. His birthday. I smiled at that.

My heart felt stupidly full, and my steps were light as I walked away, already counting down the hours until I’d see him again.

***

Troye’s POV

I couldn’t stop smiling at my phone.

It was ridiculous, really—Nicco had only sent a few words, nothing poetic, nothing elaborate. But still, there it was—that familiar flutter in my chest, that quiet, unshakable warmth that came with seeing his name light up my screen.

It didn’t take much. Somehow, Nicco always found a way to slip past the walls I’d built, easing himself into the soft, unguarded parts of me before I even noticed.

I set the phone down on the counter and tried—honestly tried—to wipe the grin off my face. But the effort came too late. When I glanced up, Kiana and Kent were already watching me from across the café, identical smirks plastered on their faces.

“You’ve been smiling to yourself for a while now,” Kiana said, leaning forward, curiosity all but glowing in her eyes. “Come on, let me see what’s on that phone. Must be something worth grinning over.”

Kent snorted, not even pretending to be subtle. “Oh, please. It’s obvious. Our boy here finally said yes to that Nicco guy.”

I froze. “What—”

Kiana gasped, hand flying to her chest. “Wait, for real?”

I hesitated, then gave the smallest nod. “Y-Yeah,” I said, the word catching awkwardly in my throat. It came out softer than I intended, but it was enough.

Kiana’s eyes widened further. “Oh my God. Since when?”

“Yesterday.”

Kent let out a low whistle, folding his arms like a man who’d just won a bet. “Called it.”

I could feel my ears burning. “You did not.”

“Oh, I so did,” he countered, grinning like a fool. “The way you’ve been spacing out every night since he started courting you? Obvious.”

Kiana reached over and squeezed my arm, her teasing replaced by a quiet kind of concern. “Okay, listen,” she said gently. “I’m happy for you. Really. But make sure he treats you right, okay? No rushing into anything. Keep a little for yourself.”

“I know,” I said, meeting her gaze. And I meant it.

But Kent couldn’t resist chiming in. “And for the love of all things sacred, don’t surrender the West Philippine Sea just yet.”

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. “You guys are the worst.”

Kiana laughed; Kent smirked triumphantly. I decided that was my cue to escape.

I wandered toward the bookshelf at the back of the café, pretending to busy myself with dusting and rearranging. My fingers brushed the worn spines of familiar paperbacks—titles I’d read a dozen times—and I focused on their texture, on the comfort of something steady and known.

But no matter how hard I tried to mask it, the smile crept back.

It was small at first, the kind that tugged at the corners of my lips without permission. Then it grew, quiet but impossible to suppress.

I was happy.

Maybe scared—because happiness, for me, had always come with the fear of losing it. Maybe uncertain—because I still didn’t know where this would lead, or if I could trust myself not to overthink it.

But beneath all that hesitation was something undeniable.

I was happy.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel fragile. It just felt real.

***

Nicco’s POV

I’d been sitting at my workstation for nearly an hour, but my fingers had barely touched the keyboard.

Numbers blurred on the screen. Voices rose and fell around me—Venice leading the presentation, Yasser throwing in comments, Franco pacing with his coffee—but none of it landed. My focus was elsewhere.

Specifically, on the phone lying next to my laptop.

Its screen was black. Still, I kept glancing at it every few seconds, like maybe if I looked long enough, a new message would magically appear.

“Nicco, are you okay with that proposal?”

Venice’s voice sliced through my fog. I blinked, caught mid-thought.

“Sorry—what?”

She groaned, exasperated. “Unbelievable. Someone, please, bring this man back to Earth.”

The room burst into quiet laughter.

“Man, are you even in the room?” Yasser teased from the other end of the table, spinning his pen like this was the highlight of his morning.

Franco leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve been staring at your phone like it’s about to confess something.”

And then Jacob—of course, Jacob—decided to seal my fate. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, that knowing grin spreading across his face.

“Just admit it,” he said. “He said yes, didn’t he?”

I tried to play dumb, but my lips betrayed me. The smile came uninvited, small and helpless. And apparently, that was enough.

The room erupted.

“Damn,” Yasser said, pointing his pen at me. “No wonder you’ve been acting like you just won the lottery.”

“Bro, you’ve got it bad,” Franco added. “Slow down before you crash. Troye seems like a dream, but—just go easy.”

I didn’t even bother defending myself. They weren’t wrong.

Instead, I leaned back in my chair, a quiet laugh slipping out as I stared at the ceiling. My chest felt too light, too full at the same time.

Six years. It had been six long, deliberate years since I’d let anyone in—since I’d even wanted to. I’d gotten good at keeping my guard up, good at pretending the quiet was enough.

But then there was Troye.

Troye, who cooked breakfast and left soft messages.

Troye, whose silences were gentle, whose eyes spoke in ways words couldn’t.

Troye, who didn’t ask for much but somehow gave me back the parts of myself I thought I’d buried.

The kind of man who didn’t just walk into your life—he slipped in quietly, filled the space beside you, and made you realize how cold it had been before he did.

And damn it, I was gone.

I felt it in the small ways—how I caught myself rereading his texts, how I smiled at nothing, how I wanted to show up better, softer, steadier.

For the first time in six years, I wasn’t afraid of what this could be.

Not because it was certain—nothing ever was—but because it felt right.

Because with Troye, hope didn’t hurt.

It healed.